


Stranded

by Zarathastra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: D/s relationship (eventually!), M/M, NC-17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarathastra/pseuds/Zarathastra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's taken a while but Sherlock has figured out what John needs.  Now all he has to do is get John to admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranded

**Author's Note:**

> It will be obvious that the author has no personal knowledge of D/s relationships. It's not my intention to upset or offend anyone involved in the lifestyle I hope what I've written isn't complete rubbish,

It was impossible to run any faster. Sherlock could see Leon Baskin vanishing around the corner and into thin air and knew that, this time the brilliant deduction in front of the denizens of Scotland Yard just wasn’t going to happen. He felt somewhat slighted by the knowledge.

 

He skidded around the corner after his quarry, feeling as if he were flying, using his billowing coat in place of the wings he’d never be able to grow. Still, there were limits and he knew that, this time at least, he’d reached them. There’d be no catching Baskin tonight.

 

Slowing, stopping, he bent to grasp his knees and breathe heavily, a little frozen air sucked into his throat stabbing like an icicle. It was time to admit defeat and return to Baker Street.

 

In spite of John not being there to defuse the situation he managed to extricate himself from the crowd of police officials without too much embarrassment, pretending he didn’t hear the faint snort coming from Sally Donovan’s direction as he raised his arm to hail a cab. Someone pointed out in a loud voice that the Tube station was just a few yards away around the corner, but he ignored that, too. All he could think of right then was getting back to the flat, where there was someone waiting who didn’t pass judgement. Well, not much.

 

However irritating it might sometimes be, to John, at least, he would always be a hero.

 

~~~

 

The carpet was a present from a grateful client. It was of fine quality and very expensive. Beneath it was a metal plate let into a hollow cut into the flooring. Set into the plate was a ring, to which Sherlock had attached one end of a strong, slender chain. Once that was accomplished he’d covered the plate with the carpet. The small square cut out of the carpet was discreet and would go unnoticed, Sherlock hoped, hidden as it was by the chair carefully placed in order to conceal its presence.

 

Before he had left that evening, he’d thought of something else and unfastened John’s watch from around his wrist, slipping it into his coat pocket. “There,” he’d said, looking steadily at John, “all secure.”

 

All secure and unable to gauge how long he would be gone.

 

“Well, I’m off then,” Sherlock had said, moving the fire-screen in front of the cheerful fire. “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry. If any coals should drop, they’ll fall onto the tiles and the screen will prevent them from falling onto the rug. Are you warm enough?”

 

“Yes,” John whispered, in spite of the tiny but obvious detail of his nakedness. The shiver going through him had nothing to do with being cold.

 

“Okay. I’ll see you later then,” Sherlock said, a little smirk playing on his lips as he wrapped his scarf securely around his neck and glanced down at John’s crotch. “And don’t worry, I got rid of Mrs Hudson for you with a few simple grocery requests – bread, milk, beans and the like... She seems to have an obsession with biscuits for some reason.”

 

And with that he was gone.

 

~~~

 

The light in the room was fading fast. The only exceptions were the bright spots provided by the silent television and the glowing fire.

 

How many hours had it been?

 

 

Sherlock had left the television set on mute, so that John couldn’t tell what the dialogue might be, although the picture gave a clue. A beautiful young female celebrity dancing in a fountain, a tall champagne flute held in her unsteady grip. The latest chapter in her quest for - for what? Enlightenment?  John couldn’t help her with that.

 

He shifted in the chair, as much as he was able to. His thoughts drifted away from the room, away from the silly girl on the screen and her futile search to find herself. She was looking in the wrong place anyway. He bit his lip. Wasn’t that exactly what he was doing himself? How had he even thought this was going to work? Giving of himself so completely, giving up his autonomy and to that madman of all people.

 

What had happened to Captain Watson, the man who’d proved to himself and his equals over and over again to have both courage and resourcefulness?

 

Sherlock Holmes had happened, that’s what, had appeared in John’s life and dazzled him, shown him a new existence that he’d never even imagined could happen again for him after the army and then had taken it away again, just as John had allowed himself to let go and rely on the sheer joy of following in his wake.

 

Sherlock’s return had knocked him for six, every bit as much as his apparent death had done. Just as he’d begun to slowly move forward, to learn how to fend for himself again, to recapture the strong, capable man he’d been in Afghanistan, William Sherlock Scott Holmes had come back with his sodding three first names and his swirly coat and his showy scarf, had appeared without warning like some demented cuckoo and kicked out whoever had been in his way, which had ultimately turned out to be Mary Morstan.

 

It had been one of the most painful conversations of his entire life.

 

~~~

 

They’d been sitting on the sofa in Mary’s living-room, and she had gently brought up the topic of Sherlock again.

 

“How would you feel?” Mary had asked. “If he walked in here right now? What would you do?”

 

He usually didn’t reply to questions like that, but this time he did.

 

“I’d punch him,” he said.

 

“And then?”

 

He couldn’t answer. Answering would mean telling her about the things he had wanted, hoped for, dreamed about. This new love had been carefully laid over the buried ruins of the old one like new skin over a deep wound and if that skin cracked open he would find himself floundering, still waiting as he had done before, for the rest of his life, probably. And he didn’t want her to feel like a consolation prize, which somewhere deep inside he acknowledged was probably what she was.

 

“Mary…”

 

“No, it’s okay,” she said. “I understand.”

 

And that had been the worst part. She really did.

 

~~~

 

A scant few months later, John knew from the moment the door closed behind her that he was never going to see her again. He hadn’t even needed to say anything because she’d seen it all. His expression had told her all she needed to know about the tearing in two of his tattered soul as he fought to keep both his loves in his life and failed. Mary had briefly considered fighting for her man, but he had never really been hers, had he? She’d looked over at Sherlock with a rueful smile, nodded slightly, and gave John one last kiss.

 

“I expect you to look after him,” she said to Sherlock, and it was satisfying that he actually nodded and moved a little closer to John who stood unresolved between the two of them. And then Mary had slipped off her ring, pressed it into John’s hand with a final farewell kiss and disappeared out of his life and he reeled at how much it hurt to let her go.

 

~~~

 

But it would’ve been okay, in the end, were it not for the changes that he and the multi-named S. Holmes had gone through, him in the ultimately meaningless grief he had gone through on this man’s account and Sherlock in his tenacity. Instead of following the woman he’d promised to marry, John had hunched his shoulders slightly against the pain and decided to accept what he was being given at face value, walked into Sherlock’s open arms and laid his head down to listen to the steadily beating heart as he shuddered with a different kind of grief. And Sherlock had kissed his hair and stroked his hand down John’s back, awakening the nerve-endings there as he whispered “Come to bed, John. Lie down with me, let me make it better. All of it. Words mean nothing; let me show you how remorseful I really am.”

 

It sounded to John as if Sherlock had been repeating words he’d read in some book or heard somewhere, it would have been just like him to do that. Well, John admitted, at least he’d done his research. All the same, John didn’t know whether to give in or do as he’d threatened and punch him.

 

In that life-altering moment of recognition, once again John let his chance slip away. He’d had his moment, but it was already too late. He was rooted to the spot, standing like a statue, just staring at the weave of Sherlock’s coat as the tears standing in his eyes blinded him.

 

“Well, John?” Sherlock asked, turning them gently in the direction of his bedroom.

 

“If I’m going to give in,” John said hoarsely, “tell me it’s forever. Because if I go in there with you now, I’m lost.”

 

“Lost?”

 

“I’ll never be able to leave.”

 

“Why would you want to leave?”

 

John’s face tilted up to stare at the ceiling, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze which, had he allowed himself to look, was both possessive and oddly kind. “For my sanity,” he said, “and for what might be left of my independence. I don’t want to be reduced to your…your…”

 

Sherlock’s fond, watchful expression smoothed out. “My what?” he asked in a neutral voice.

 

John had never been able to make himself even think it, let alone say it. As this thing gradually crept up on him he’d fought the very notion many times but it had never been said out loud. He took a deep breath and almost spat the words out. “Okay, I don’t want you to make me into to your fucking possession.” And that was admitting so much that the enormity of it took his breath away.

 

As he stood there out of breath he felt Sherlock taking his face in his gentle hands. “You think I’d do that?” Sherlock asked softly.

 

“Yes.”

 

And why do you think I would do that?”

 

John’s lips thinned, he freed his face from the gentle grip. “To show me who’s in charge, like I didn’t already know. If I let you do that, I’d never have to make a choice for myself ever again.”

 

Sherlock laughed softly. “Yes, of course, that’s why. I want to spend my time just giving pointless commands for the sake of it. Quite right.”

 

John looked away from that steady gaze as Sherlock continued. “I don’t know if you’ve considered what this is meant to be, but if anything were to happen to you while I was oblivious to your presence, while in the midst of a crime scene for instance, I wouldn’t be able to function normally, perhaps for quite some time. I’m not playing a game, John, that’s not what this is. I took guardianship of you because you gave me permission to do so. That’s the only reason I have for leaving you here. You are mine now and I want to know that you will be here when I return. You said it was what you wanted.”

 

John shivered at the words. “Quite some time, eh?” he said.

 

“So what did you think it was going to be?” Sherlock asked later, lying with John in his arms, his voice filled with genuine curiosity. “Sex, of course - and you know now how right you were about that - but what else? Was it to be all barked orders and bondage? Maybe a little violence for you to fight against?”

 

He looked into John’s eyes, met that cagey look from the depths of John’s uncertain gaze. “It’s just a game, then, a means for me to control you with no strings attached on your part and for you to submit to my wishes only when you please with no guilt.

 

“That’s it, then, it was to be all ease and protection for you and none for me. I’m just your means of opting out of responsibility for your own life, yes? I took that responsibility seriously, John. Whenever I use these restraints on you it will be because I see all the reasons why you need them. I can see the necessity in you to do as you’re ordered, and the conflict that rises in you because prior to this you’ve mostly been the one to give those orders. The Army was the perfect haven for you, wasn’t it, and you were floundering when they rejected you so out-of-hand. After all your loyal service, what did you get? A pension and a wound that would never heal.”  He didn’t say that healing that wound would now be his responsibility and his right

 

 

~~~

 

The next evening Sherlock squatted in front of the same chair, laid his palm gently on the ugly scar on John’s shoulder, so perilously close to his heart. “When I talked about the wound you bear that will never heal, I wasn’t referring to this one, of course.” He let his hands slide down to the wide leather cuffs around John’s wrists and further down the slender chains to where they met the ring in the flooring in front of John’s chair. “You need routine and directions in order to function. Commands, if you will. I gave you a command tonight, and you left yourself no choice but to follow it. If I give you the same one tomorrow, leaving you free to follow it or not, as you will, I wonder what would happen.”

 

The room was warm, the fire was providing sufficient heat, but John shivered. Sherlock’s command had left him breathless. He hadn’t been expecting anything like that, but still he had done as he was told.

 

“While I was dead,” Sherlock went on, “did you imagine my voice in your head, giving you direction? Quite often, I assume.”

 

John’s left hand began to shake. He didn’t want to say it, but it came tumbling out anyway. “All the time,” he whispered. “It’s the only reason I’m still here, because I’d let myself believe you wouldn’t leave me here alone. And then you did. And I didn’t know how else to carry on but to think that you’d...”

 

Speak to his soul from beyond the grave? He’d told himself that was a step too far. And so it was, wasn’t it? The Sherlock voice in his head had let him carry on alone, had ordered him to, really. And he had obeyed. As he had tonight, as he had from the moment he first met Sherlock Holmes in that hospital laboratory. Just how far down had he gone and how much further did he have to go?

 

He didn’t know, but it seemed Sherlock did. There was a weary smile on Sherlock’s face as he continued to watch John’s expression, and when he spoke it seemed he had read his mind, too. “You can’t deny that when you first saw me at Bart’s, even though you remained standing, something in you knelt down at my feet. You relaxed and took your hands off the steering wheel and you stopped fighting. You just stopped, because you saw there was someone there, at last, to show you the way to recover your lost soul.”

 

His voice might have been soft, but not the fingers which now travelled down John’s stomach to the thatch of hair at his groin. They tangled in it and crushed skin and hair alike before moving away with one last fond pat.

 

John gave a squeak and took a breath before trying to respond.

 

“Yes, I thought that,” he admitted. “And what happened in the end, Sherlock? You left me, me and my lost soul. Just left me sitting here staring at your empty chair imagining what could’ve been if only you were still here. I let myself think that I could help you, that you wouldn’t have to risk it all alone every time you went out there, and when we came back here I could show you how much…”

 

John’s voice got quieter and trailed off. Sherlock’s imagination supplied the missing word. He didn’t know how to process what John had said, how to picture the comfortable fantasy John had harboured. He knew Mummy and Daddy felt that way, about each other, about him - even about Mycroft, he admitted reluctantly. That was their job, wasn’t it, to be that kind of refuge?

 

John wasn’t the only one who was facing the loss of his independence. Sherlock suddenly felt the restrictions such an arrangement would have on his own life, the responsibility it would bring. It was annoying that at this stage he didn’t even know why. In a way John was right. He was taking on a solemn duty here and he had to acknowledge that if he did this, if he accepted being Sherlock Holmes in love, for him there would be no liberty to speak of. But wasn’t it already too late to wonder about that? He could, he found, wear the loss lightly, but he couldn’t surrender it without a final protest. He couldn’t allow John to go on believing that he was entering into this lightly. His next thought came to him through a pang of dismay.

 

John frowned. He’d said something wrong again and couldn’t figure out what. But of course he knew. It was time to stop pretending to himself that he didn’t. And it was strange that such a simple thing should solve all the mysteries of his life.

 

“What was I supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life in limbo? Turn into the kind of bachelor who lives alone and causes no-one any trouble until he’s found dead on the settee under a pile of old newspapers? Just when were you coming back, Sherlock?

 

Sherlock felt it in a surge of intuitive deduction, untangling the sense of what was being said from the raw emotion in the words. There. That was the secret John had tried so hard to not let him see, all those lies and half-truths he’d been telling to hide a truth that was, in the end, so obvious. They were together just because they needed each other, that life before John, and life before Sherlock, had been empty and grey.

 

“You’re a solider. You loved the danger you found when you went to war,” Sherlock said, “and because of an accident of circumstance they took it away from you. And then we met and there it was, given back to you. You’d been yearning for what you found with me and didn’t want to be left to go on without it. And that was precisely what happened when I jumped off that roof and took away the lifestyle you craved.”

 

It sounded so cold when Sherlock said it like that. John needed him to understand that it wasn’t only the lifestyle he’d wanted back. “No, I…”

 

Sherlock pressed his palm to the planes of John’s chest, circled around his hard nipples. “Yes, John. You need to admit it, and not just to me.” He tried hard not to sound triumphant; it would be so discourteous to John and his endearing soul-baring...

 

John’s forehead wrinkled. His eyes got bright and intense. “It wasn’t just the danger, or being left behind,” he said quietly. “It’s – it was being left behind by you.” His voice grew hoarse. “When you died, I didn’t know what to do. I sat here for days, pleading with you to come back, promising things I’d never give to anyone else if only you’d stop being dead. That would’ve made the news, right, an actual ghost back from the dead. But you didn’t come back, so that’s when I started seeing a therapist. She couldn’t help.”

 

Sherlock snorted.

 

“At least she tried,” John said. “She told me to remember the good things and come to terms with everything else. So I did. I made myself forget what a wanker you could be at times and remember how brilliant you were, how dazzling. How you could solve a case just by looking at a piece of cotton thread on someone’s lapel, or noting the different sounds a barking dog made, how you remembered everything – well, once you’d cleared out the junk from your Mind Palace. And how you gave hope where there was none before.…” He trailed off at the look on Sherlock’s face.

 

“How could I – how could anyone – live up to that kind of ideal?” Sherlock asked in disbelief. “What do you think I am? I was to be your incentive for carrying on, I take it. How very unreasonable of you. You think this is what I returned from the dead for? No. If you want this, John, for whatever reason, you will ask me for it.”

 

The hand on John’s groin moved away, stroked his thigh instead. Not feeling quite ready for that yet, John flinched. “So tell me what it’s like.”

 

“What?”

 

“Dying.” The sound of his voice seemed far away and hollow.

 

“It’s like Switzerland.”

 

“What?”

 

“Or Meiringen, to be precise. It’s adrenaline and fear” He lifted his other hand to silence John’s protest. “And yes, I know that you would have come with me and helped to allay those fears. You’d have been at my side and fought them with everything in your power. But I couldn’t allow it.”

 

“It wasn’t your choice to make, Sherlock…”

 

“Yes, it was! Don’t you understand, even now?”

 

“Understand what?”

 

“What this is. What I really saw in you that day at Bart’s and continued to see as you ran behind me into the unknown. By the end of that day I knew you more intimately than your own family, than the friend of your youth. And later I found I knew you better than your comrade-in-arms, who told you what to do in certain situations but had no idea what effect those commands would have on your psyche. And ultimately I knew you better than the person who was supposed to love you more than anyone else on this Earth.”

 

His hand moved to stroke John’s hair and felt the shudder of surrender and arousal underneath his palm as something in John broke open...

 

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he said, “and it will never be mentioned again.”

 

John gave himself one more moment of freedom, hoping he’d remember it for a while before it faded into the back of his mind and eventually vanished, and then he exhaled calmly and accepted his new situation. He wanted to put his hand to Sherlock’s face but in his current state it was impossible.   He let go of his fear, his anger, and met Sherlock’s steady gaze with his own.

 

“I give in,” he said. “You win. I’m putting my life in your hands.” And the cautious bravery in his smile made Sherlock’s heart stutter. If he’d ever wondered about what this was between them, he had his answer now. This was a gift he would never take for granted, never send back. Never.

 

“Enough talk,” Sherlock decided. He was about to issue is first command. Well, officially. How to phrase it? John needed to be guided, but there were ways of providing guidance.

 

Sherlock’s deft fingers released John from his bonds without the other man even realising it until he pulled John up from the chair and steered him toward the stairs, feeling the chilled skin under his hand. “My room will be warm,” he said. “And it will get warmer very soon.”

 

And it did. Amazing what a small piece of plastic could do.

 

~~~

 

So here they were. By now John was well acquainted with that piece of plastic. Sherlock had used it on him so often that by now it fit him perfectly. It was comfortable and satisfying, gave him untold pleasure and made him beg shamelessly, just as Sherlock wanted. He took it like a professional now, breathing heavily as Sherlock manipulated it inside him. He was so sensitised that he could feel each of the individual beads as they massaged his inner walls and ramped the pleasure up higher and higher.

 

Now, alone in the room, he flexed gingerly around the length of plastic, ever mindful of safety - he couldn’t stop being a doctor, even at a time like this - pressing his lips together to keep himself quiet whenever it shifted slightly inside him.

 

“See if you can expel it by muscle power alone,” Sherlock had said. “It would be fascinating to see.”

 

Try as he might, it wouldn’t budge. Not that it mattered. It was providing enough gratification just seated as it was. Sherlock would be interested in the progress report when he came back.

 

He heard the front door open and close. Right on time. It was…

 

“Yoo-hoo!”

 

John suddenly jolted in the chair and his heart began to pound. Oh, God…

 

“Boys, are you in?”

 

He thought about staying silent, but if he did that she’d come in and see him like this. ‘Sherlock, you prat’, he thought, forgetting in his consternation that he had wanted this.

 

“Hello Mrs H,” he called, trying for casual. Oh, God, if she came in now she’d either think they’d been robbed, that he’d been attacked, or that he was a kinky bastard who liked sitting around in the nude. Two out of three wasn’t bad, though what kind of insane burglar would have stuck a string of anal beads up his arse before leaving?

 

“I’m just going to put the biscuits on the table,” she said, “I could only get custard creams but Sherlock likes them. I’d stay and tidy up for you but Mrs Turner’s invited me to have a nice cup of tea and she doesn’t like it when visitors are late, the tea gets cold.”

 

Cup of tea, eh? A nice glass of wine and a small bet on the horses more like, John thought sagely.

 

“Bye John, dear!”

 

“Bye,” he called in relief. Thank goodness Sherlock had cured her of simply walking into the flat any time she pleased. That scorpion in the matchbox had been a bit extreme but it had done the trick.

 

The front door closed behind her and he renewed his efforts to free himself, which proved to be fruitless as well as a bit of a turn-on. The only effect his struggles had was to cause the beads to chafe his sore rim and slick the leather of the cuffs with his sweat. He wondered if this new arrangement was worth the heart attack he was surely headed for.

 

And then he thought of all the things Sherlock could do to him and how they would make him feel and admitted that yes, it was worth it. “Oh, Sherlock,” he thought, “please, come back soon, damn it.”

 

~~~

 

Sherlock was on his way. In his own fashion he was suffering, too, feeling the burn of desire as he pictured John still sitting there waiting. Perhaps he’d have abrasions on his wrists from fighting his restraints. He found he wanted to see that.

 

Whatever happened when he got back, it was going to be good.

 

~~~

 

This time when the front door opened, John knew who it was and he began to pant. His hands curled into fists and he gasped as he felt his cock wake up.

 

The door opened.

 

“Hello, John.”

 

~~~

 

John was concentrating on keeping silent. He was very much afraid that this time Mrs Hudson would hear him moaning.

 

Sherlock looked down at his as he removed his scarf and grinned.

 

“I see we’re of the same mind,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve waited long enough.” Kneeling down beside the chair and slipped the small key from his shirt pocket and made short work of removing the cuffs. They were leather so there was hardly any abrasion to speak of but John’s sweat had darkened them and they in turn had left his skin slick.

 

“And how are the beads suiting you?” Sherlock asked politely. “Comfortable? Or are they making you sore? Well, I can’t check that out here, Mrs Hudson really would have something to say. A little privacy is in order I think.”

 

He didn’t wait for John to finish rubbing the circulation back into his arms; he just pulled him up from the chair and across the room, checking to make sure the coast was clear before bundling them into his bedroom.

 

“How’s this for an adrenaline rush, John?” he asked. “Is it dangerous enough for you?”

 

 

A few minutes later, John made to roll over but Sherlock’s voice stopped him. “No John, I want you on your back. Show me what you’ve got.”

 

What he had was a penis that was hard and aching and pulsing with need. He splayed his legs open to display it in all its finery.

Sherlock looked down at it.

 

“Very nice,” he said, “but it needs a little something.”

 

And he produced a little something from one of the deep pockets of his coat.

 

“Oh, God,” John groaned with arousal.

 

“Well, you wouldn’t want this to be a five minute fling, would you?” Sherlock asked. He reached down to the base of John’s genitals and took hold of penis and balls alike, squeezing them in his hand. “This goes around here,” he commented as he wrapped the black leather ring around the base, “nice and tight. Not too tight, I hope?”

 

John didn’t know how to tell him it was a bit tight and that it was turning him on even more, so he just shook his head.

 

“And I’m sure you’re curious about this little bit. It goes here.” Sherlock took hold of a tiny piece of leather at the back of the ring and drew it forward, fitting it snugly right between John’s balls before he popped the fastener shut at the front of the contraption.

 

“I hope that’s going to stay in place,” he said conversationally.

 

John gasped as Sherlock stroked his balls, gripped in their tight bondage.

 

“If it’s too tight you need to tell me. As I’m sure you know people who have been in the throes of passion have been known to sustain injury by being too adventurous. I’ll need to check the colour of your genitals, how warm they are, how they move in my hand.” He gave a wolfish grin. “Should be fun,” he said.

 

John’s bound testicles throbbed suddenly, sending a wave of pleasure through him and he moaned loudly.

 

Sherlock liked the look of him lying there like that. He pursed his lips and put his hand on the trapped flesh, feeling the pulse of want going through it, echoed on John’s face. “You need to be quiet, John. I can picture Mrs Tuner with a water glass pressed to the wall, hoping to hear what’s going on.”

 

John suddenly thrust upward in frustration with a deep groan.

 

“I said quiet, John. You can come when I say you may. Right now this is for me, your gift of gratitude. Are you grateful, John?”

 

More grateful that Sherlock would ever know. John gave a little nod.

 

“That’s my John,” Sherlock said. “Now, still, please. You will stay like that until I say otherwise.”

 

He turned away to remove his clothes, taking care not to crease them. John could hardly believe that Sherlock wanted him at all judging by the time it took to take everything off and how neatly he folded it all.

 

Sherlock smiled. John’s bones would be aching by the time he was done. He reached to torment John’s erection a little more and fondle his bound balls. Then he took hold of the end of the string of beads seated inside him. “You’ve worn these so patiently,” he said. “I know how much you like them, how much you crave the soreness.”

 

He started to pull them out slowly, amid a continuous stream of soft grunting sounds from John’s mouth.

 

“There,” he said softly, stroking John’s sweat-soaked hair. “All gone.” He fingered the aching rim gently for a few minutes to let John feel it. “I know it hurts,” he soothed, “it all adds to the pleasure, John. You’ll see.”

 

With that he kissed John’s forehead, knelt between the spread legs and slid inside carefully, belying his previous words of command, aware that the space he was trying to occupy was stretching beyond what it had ever been required to do before. This wasn’t about causing pain, it was about trust. And lust, of course. The grip of John’s flesh was tight and pleasurable. Thank goodness John hadn’t thought to insist on a condom, Sherlock thought. He’d be pretty annoyed about that later.

 

John made another small grunt of discomfort.

 

“John?” Sherlock suddenly wondered if he’d let things go too far. He made to sit up, was going to withdraw but John’s left hand reached for him. It was steady and firm on his forearm and kept him in place.

 

“No, don’t. Please don’t stop,” John murmured. “I need this, I need you.” And as Sherlock moved forward again he laid his head back on the pillow and his breath hitched before he began to moan softly again with every movement Sherlock made.

 

Sherlock took him at his word and continued his press on, settling eventually for a steady push and pull that had sparks of delight shimmering along his entire length.

 

The end, when it came, took him by surprise. On an especially firm push inside and drag back out he felt the sudden rush in his groin and thrust in hurriedly as far as he could go, letting the orgasm happen, still thrusting all the way through it, John’s quiet voice still moaning an accompaniment to his pleasure.

 

He lay on top of John’s body, still lodged inside, surrounded by its’ welcoming heat, waiting for the last ripples of pleasure to fade. Warm and satisfied, he laid his head on John’s shoulder and turned his face into his neck.

 

John stirred restlessly and Sherlock felt the hard flesh of the doctor’s penis rubbing against his leg. “Sherlock, I need...”

 

“Later,” he said. “You need to sleep now. And so do I.”

 

“Promise?” John whispered.

 

“John,” Sherlock chided. “Have you ever known me to lie?”

 

And he pulled John a little closer and watched him as he fell deeply asleep, wondering if he’d imagined the soft voice saying:

 

“When haven’t you…?”

 

End

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The typos I found have been fixed. If there are any others please let me know (gently) and I'll update again. Thanks.


End file.
